You think too highly of yourself, oh mind,
to answer questions God as yet has not.
It is a wisdom of the baser kind
that storms His silence with unbridled thought—
for who can cypher symbols from the dark
or wrangle possibility to stage,
to poke and prod and deftly pin the arc
of Spring’s tale, half-told, to Fall’s unwritten page?
Tomorrow, padlocked, all its secrets keep;
the sharpest analytics are no key.
Why squander given strength and needed sleep
to play the Sovereign you will never be?
Your gentle Master owns His servant’s fate;
lay down your logic then, and love, and wait.